


However Far Away

by fimbrethiel



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Temporary Character Death, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 15:23:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2586344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fimbrethiel/pseuds/fimbrethiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a minstrel loves a wizard.</p><p>Author’s Note:  This story was written for the 'Jinglebells In June' 2007 fiction exchange at http://www.geocities.com/slashysanta/. The request was for Lindir/Gandalf: “Lindir on top only because Gandalf's old and creaky! I want sweetness, Third Age, and Imladris in it. I want to feel happy and warm at the end.” For sylc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	However Far Away

**Author's Note:**

> Original date of completion: July 12, 2007
> 
> Beta: The amazing and multi-talented Minuial Nuwing
> 
> The Silmarillion ‘Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age’ suggest that the Istari may have been sent to Middle-earth around the time Sauron’s power again grew. Earlier theories, however, support Mithrandir’s arrival as a companion to Glorfindel reborn in the mid-Second Age. It is to this latter theory that I have always subscribed, and I have followed suit here. :)

*~*~*~*~*

  _Mithrandir is here!”_

A girl-child’s voice, shrill with excitement, pealed through the courtyard. Within moments, every wee one within hearing range, from tiniest toddler to awkward adolescent took up the refrain, until the entire square rang with enthusiastic glee.

“Have you brought us sweets?”

“Pleeeeease do some fireworks, Mithrandir!”

 "Did you bring us presents?”

They clamored around the tall wizard, bouncing on their feet and tugging eagerly at his robes, chattering and jostling one another for the prized position of being the one to earn his favor first, and hence, the treats the younglings knew he carried. The sight of Mithrandir’s craggy, bearded face was cause for great celebration among the young ones of Imladris.

Mithrandir laughed and dropped to his knees, gathering as many of the children as he could into his arms.

“Of course, little ones,” he said, giving the group a collective a hug, then stood up. “Now give an old wizard room to work, if you please!”

As the children obediently withdrew, he reached deep into one of the pockets of his voluminous robe and took out a small bag. The robe had been a garment of great beauty once, lavish embroidery worked with fine thread on the close-spun cloth, but years of travel had rendered it grimy and threadbare, stained by sweat and road dust. He waited, gazing around him, until the children quieted, staring at him with round-eyed anticipation. His smile was genuine; he loved these children as his own, surrogates for the ones he would never sire.

From the bag, he passed out a few hard lump sugar-candies, some trinkets, a handful of finger-traps and crackers, while his eyes roamed the gathering crowd ceaselessly. None of them marked how the smile faltered slightly, how the merry blue eyes dimmed with a trace of disappointment when the face he sought above all others did not appear.

None noticed, but for one.

Elrond, Master of Imladris, descended the stairs, accompanied, as always, by his confidante and trusted counselor Glorfindel. He walked to his visitor, holding out both hands in greeting. “Welcome, Mithrandir! This is an unexpected pleasure indeed. Long has it been since you have graced our valley.”

Mithrandir shooed the children away and sent them off amid a shower of sparks shaped like miniature dragons. Squealing with glee, the young ones scampered about the courtyard chasing the magical creatures, leaving their elders in relative quiet.

The wizard first clasped Elrond’s hand, then turned to embrace his old friend Glorfindel. “You look well, Elrond, and you, Glorfindel are as stunning as ever. Taking good care of the master, are you?”

Glorfindel grinned, squeezing the wizard’s shoulder. “Someone has to.”

Elrond might have rolled his eyes, but perhaps it was only an illusion of the sun. “Will you stay a while?”

Mithrandir sighed regretfully and shook his head. “Would that I could, my friend. Gather your counselors, Elrond, for we have much to discuss.”

“Indeed.”

Unflappable as usual, Elrond received this portentous news with little more reaction than a quirked eyebrow. None would ever guess at the sudden weakening of his knees or the chill of cold sweat that broke out across the small of his back. He turned to Glorfindel, intending to issue the order, but the golden-haired Elvenlord was already halfway across the courtyard. Elrond watched him go, a hint of a smile on his face. “Ever he anticipates my every need,” he remarked, his eyes following his dear friend’s lanky strides.

_"_ And _that_  is information best left to the imagination, old friend.” Mithrandir’s eyes sparkled wickedly. He had known Glorfindel since the Elda’s rebirth, and the two had sailed from the Undying Lands as boon companions. By virtue of their long years of friendship, Mithrandir was one of the few entrusted with knowledge of the exact nature of the relationship between the Peredhel lord and his golden-haired advisor.

Elrond simply winked and took his old friend’s arm, guiding him into the house.

Blue eyes twinkling, Mithrandir stopped at the top of the stair and turned to Elrond, halting their progress. “While your counselors are gathering, I would like to hear a bit of music to ease my cares after a long and tiresome journey. Would you be so kind as to lead the way?”

*~*~*~*~*

Elrond led the way through the winding passageways of Imladris and stopped at the end of a hallway. From inside came the high-pitched warbling of a young child’s voice, clumsily singing along to a simple tune blown on a recorder.

 Standing outside the door, he listened for a moment, then caught Mithrandir’s eye and held his finger to his lips. He opened the door quietly and slipped inside. The wizard followed and stood beside Elrond, hidden from view behind a drapery in the vestibule.

 A smooth voice interrupted the awkward trilling and issued a few gently worded instructions, then sang a short passage to demonstrate.

 Mithrandir stood against the wall, leaning on his staff; his eyelids fluttered closed as the soaring voice took over. That voice was the one that buoyed his dreams when they grew dark, the one that kept him warm during long, cold nights in the wild, the one that had whispered sweet words of love in his ear so many times, yet not nearly often enough. A gentle smile graced the bearded countenance, creasing the wrinkles further, yet for it, the craggy face looked somehow younger and less careworn.

 The voice broke off abruptly, and Mithrandir opened his eyes to realize that Elrond was no longer standing beside him. He had been so lost in listening that he had not heard the Elvenlord move away.

 “Pardon the interruption, Master Lindir,” Elrond was saying from a few feet away. “We shall take but a moment of your time, if you could spare it?”

 “Of course, my Lord, we were going to be taking a break shortly, anyway,” Lindir replied, his mildly confused tone belying the habitually serene expression on his face. Why would Elrond have sought  _him_  out, a lowly minstrel, instead of all the powerful lords and counselors in his service?

 Unless…

 His throat suddenly went dry and his heart leapt with hopeful longing. Elrond had said ‘we’. Could it possibly be? Surely not… it was too much to hope, yet hope he did. Fervently.

 He turned to the group of children waiting expectantly behind him. “It is a few minutes early, but we shall take our break now, children. Run along to the side room and Mistress Merilon will have your snacks ready.” The group of boys and girls ran off, chattering and giggling. “And mind you do not spill juice in my piano this time!” he called after them.

 “Juice in the piano? Dare I ask?” Though his lip curved in amusement, Elrond never lost his customary composure.

 “Oh, yes, and it was a terrible mess,” Lindir answered with a slight laugh, shaking his head. “I have no idea how they managed, but the entire thing had to be dismantled, cleaned, and restrung. It has never sounded quite the same since. So how may I be of service, my Lord?” Clenching his damp palms together behind his back, he hoped desperately that his anxiety did not show.

 Mithrandir stepped out of the shadows.

 A slight widening of Lindir’s eyes was all that betrayed the riot of emotion that threatened to spill out.

 “Well met, Lindir. I trust you have been keeping yourself well since last we met?”

 Lindir’s hand was steady as he clenched a fist over his heart in a gesture of respect and dipped his chin in greeting. “Aye, Mithrandir, I am quite well. I confess this is a surprise, though a most welcome one. Will you be staying long?”

 “I am sorry, Lindir; however eager I am to renew our acquaintance, Master Elrond requires my counsel. There is much work to be done, and little time.”

 The careful observer would have noticed that Lindir’s shoulders slumped, but his voice was soft and steady. “I understand. Will I see you later, then?”

 “Oh, I should think so, Master Lindir. A wizard always turns up when there is need.” He winked and shuffled out, followed by Elrond, leaving the minstrel alone.

Lindir stood for a long moment, watching the deserted doorway. If any of his pupils had returned at that moment and witnessed the foolish smile that spread across their master’s face, they would have wondered if he had wholly lost his mind.

 *~*~*~*~*

 The Counsel had been a solemn affair, as meetings of great minds tend to be when discussing matters of great import, and Mithrandir was so very tired, far wearier than he remembered being for a long, long time.

 He shuffled down the hall, stooped and bent, leaning on his staff as though he bore the weight of the Ages upon his shoulders, toward the suite of rooms reserved for his sole use. No matter the interval between visits, whether weeks or even years, these rooms were without fail ready for his occupancy: the bed made with fresh linen, fresh seasonal flowers or greenery cut and arranged in vases or baskets, and a fire ready on the grate, waiting only to be set aflame.

 That he was unobserved was an absolute assurance, because he had placed some of his own warding spells throughout the hallway, in addition to those Master Elrond had constructed. Only a handful of servants, carefully screened and hand-selected by the governing triumvirate of Imladris – Elrond, Glorfindel, and the other of Elrond’s most trusted advisors and dearest friends, Erestor – were responsible for the upkeep and cleaning of this hidden wing of the Last Homely House, so cleverly concealed that even many of the long-time inhabitants were unaware of its existence.

 For Mithrandir had a secret.

 As he neared the single carven door at the end of the corridor, his steps seemed to grow longer and livelier, his back straighter, and an observer, had there been one, might have been surprised to hear him begin to whistle. The tune sounded suspiciously like the song he had heard earlier, in Elrond’s company in the conservatory.

 The melodious strumming of harp strings came from behind the door. He opened it slowly, noiselessly, and stood in the doorway, watching the figure inside.

 In the salon, Lindir sprawled like a cat across an overstuffed chair, one long leg hanging over the side, lustrous hair falling over his shoulders in waves of midnight-hued satin. His foot bobbed gently in time with the idle strumming of his fingers.

 Something in the air changed; he looked up and saw he was no longer alone. A flicker of what might have been regret flitted across his face, but an instant later, an easy, genuine smile of pleasure was in its place. “Mithrandir. Welcome.”

 “A welcome in my own rooms?” the wizard replied, waggling a shaggy eyebrow. “Is this a hospitality Master Elrond now extends to all his guests?”

 Lindir laughed. “A favor he extends only to the most revered and elderly ones. He was concerned that in your old age, you would forget where the privy was and piss on the floor.”

 Setting the harp on the floor, he crossed the room in a few long strides and embraced his lover. “I missed you, my love.”

 “And I you, Lindir.”

 They shared a slow, lingering kiss, then Mithrandir held his lover at arms’ length and studied his face, noting with dismay that a slight frown still creased Lindir’s brow. “Yet you are disappointed.”

 Lindir pulled away and averted his eyes. “How could I be disappointed, when you are here? I care little about your appearance.”

 “Your eyes speak what your lips will not, Lindir.  _Tell me_.”

 “You know how much I loathe those filthy robes and that nest of hair on your face,” Lindir answered grudgingly, a hint of a sulk pulling at his fair features. “I wish you were free to appear as you truly are, without these glamours, and let the entire world see your beauty.”

 “You know it is necessary,” Mithrandir sighed, preparing himself to repeat the same discussion they had had countless times in the past.

 “I know, I know, and I  _understand_ , but still, I cannot help the way I feel. Forgive me, I should not –”

 “Lindir,” the wizard interrupted, pulling his lover close once again, firmly but gently turning his beloved’s face toward him with a long, gnarled finger under the chin. “There is nothing that you must apologize for. We knew this relationship would not be an easy one, with you never knowing where I am or when I will return, and me, always longing to be with you.” With his thumb, he stroked the smooth line of Lindir’s chin. “Be patient, my precious love. When my duty to Middle-earth is fulfilled, I shall cast aside this disguise for good and walk once more among the Blessed Ones through the byways of Valmar, and you will be by my side.”

 “And that moment will not come soon enough,” Lindir muttered under his breath, but a grudging smile had returned to his face. “Can you not at least scrape that hair off? It feels like kissing a hedgehog.”

 “You have experience with kissing small forest creatures?” Mithrandir’s eyes twinkled playfully.

 As Lindir opened his mouth to retort, the wizard winked and stepped away, holding his finger up. He waved his hand through the air with a great flourish, then snapped his fingers.

 Mithrandir’s dense, tangled grey hair seemed to take on its own life, writhing around his head of its own accord, then shimmered and finally lay still over his shoulders in a gleaming wave of radiant golden-blond. The grizzled beard rippled, thinned, and vanished, and bushy eyebrows sifted to the floor like a dusting of ashes.

 But most startling of all was the transformation of Mithrandir’s face. No matter how often Lindir witnessed this phenomenon, it never failed to give him the eerie and disconcerting notion that his lover’s features were melting, like a wax figure plunged deep into the heart of a fire.

 The large hooked beak of a nose took on the gluey, misshapen appearance of flesh-colored putty, then became long, straight, and elegant. The wrinkled skin of his face puddled, then smoothed away the deep creases and lines of care.

 The being standing before Lindir bore a passing resemblance to the wizard in height and breadth, with the same slim hips, broad shoulders, and startlingly bright blue eyes, but there, the resemblance ended. This creature was unbent and graceful, his bearing noble, yet at the same time humble. His unlined face was beautiful and kind, glowing with the light of Aman.

 “Olórin at your service, little singer,” he said in a voice that resembled Mithrandir’s, yet not, for it was deep and smooth, but lacked the wizard’s usual gruff rasp. His eyes, however, were unchanged, alight with the familiar, beloved twinkle. “Do you find my appearance now more to your liking?”

 “Oh yes, very much so,” Lindir answered with a laugh, falling again into his lover’s arms.

 *~*~*~*~*

 Despite Olórin’s lighthearted banter and continued assurances of his own excellent health, Lindir saw a bone-deep weariness in his lover. He led the wizard to the bathing chamber, one of the few suites in Imladris with its own private facilities (another benefit of being a close friend of its master), where a warm bath was already steaming in the tub. An astounding quantity of bottles and carafes lined the shelves – the Grey Pilgrim might often live rough, but let it not be said he had no appreciation for luxury when the opportunity arose!

 Lindir shook his head and pointed at the readied water, gently rebuffing Olórin’s invitation to share his bath. Once his lover was undressed and comfortably ensconced in the deep tub, soaking away the sweat and grime of travel, Lindir sank to the floor beside and held his hand loosely while Olórin told him of his travels of the past years since their parting.

 “I fear, Lindir – ” he broke off, and then growled, part in vexation and fatigue. “Damn, if you would just join Elrond’s Council as he as begged you repeatedly, you would have heard this story already and I would not have to go through it again.”

 With a slender finger, Lindir traced abstract designs across his lover’s palm and replied coolly, “And as I have told both of you an equal number of times, the answer is no, and  _no_  it will remain.”

 A seat on Elrond’s Council was a most honored and highly coveted position, but an invitation that Lindir’s own shame and guilt would not allow him to accept. Elrond held him blameless for his part in the slaughter at Sirion, and this gesture of forgiveness and unconditional trust was proof, yet in Lindir’s mind, the blood of Elrond’s kin was on his hands as surely as if he had borne bow or blade, and not simply counseled the sons of Fëanor to pursue the Silmarils. Had he guessed at what devastation would ensue from this ill-fated advice… well, Elrond may have pardoned him, but Lindir would never forgive  _himself_.

 Olórin muttered under his breath. “Damned stiff-necked pride.”

 “Now, will you tell me, or must I seek out Erestor and find out from him?”

 “Erestor is probably settled comfortably in his warm bed, in the arms of his beautiful wife, and would disembowel you with a well-sharpened quill for disturbing him right now. I would miss you terribly if that were so, so I suppose I must be forced to recount the tale myself.”

 Olórin’s eyes twinkled once again and Lindir breathed a small sigh of relief. The ire of a wizard was nothing to be taken lightly, whether the wizard in question was one’s beloved of long standing or not.

 But a moment later, Olórin’s voice again became grave. “Greenwood the Great has become a place of darkness and danger, Lindir. There is an impermeable gloom that reached from the south, and fell creatures prowl the woods. Thranduil has withdrawn further into the northern part of the forest, and there he has dug deep caverns to shelter his folk.”

 “Thranduil has abandoned the forest?” Lindir exclaimed, his grip on his lover’s hand becoming precariously tight at this shocking news. “This news is ominous, indeed, Olórin.”

 “It is from Thranduil that I have brought ill tidings for the Council. There is a great shadow over Dol Guldur, one that has not been there for many years.”

 “What is it?”

 “Not  _what_ , Lindir, but  _who_. I fear… that it is Sauron, regaining his power.”

 “ _Blessed Elbereth_ ,” Lindir whispered.

 “Mmm, yes,” Olórin’s deep voice rumbled. “My thoughts precisely.”

 *~*~*~*~*

 The warm water had done its work perhaps a little too well; by the end of Olórin’s bath, his head bobbed and his eyelids were drooping. Lindir sent his lover on to bed with a promise to join him as quickly as possible and then set about tidying up the bathroom.

 Rolling up his sleeves, he drained and wiped down the bathtub, lined the bath oils back on the shelves in orderly rows, straightened the bath mat, propped open a window to let the cool night air dispel the remaining humidity, and finally, piled the damp towels in a basket in the corner. He gingerly picked up Olórin’s filthy robe by the very end of his fingertips and closed the bathroom door behind him.

 Certainly, there were maids who could have taken care of such chores, but though Lindir would never admit it to his lover, he enjoyed this rare opportunity to pretend domesticity. One day, he hoped the two of them would have their own little cottage in a little glen surrounded by pine trees, with a tiny plot for growing vegetables, and every day he would have the opportunity to playfully curse Olórin’s slovenly habits. This was his fervent wish, anyway.

 Carrying the soiled clothing through the salon, he left them in a small basket in the hallway, where they would be taken away, laundered, and returned by morning. ‘ _Not that there will be anything left to wear, once the dirt is washed away,_ ’ he thought, eyeing the filthy garment with distaste.

 He wiped his hands on his trousers, crossed the salon, and stood at the bedroom door, listening. It was quiet within. The door swung open noiselessly on well-oiled hinges, and he crept through, peering eagerly toward the bed in the muted light.

 Olórin was flat on his back under the blankets, fast asleep.

Lindir let out a long-suffering sigh. It was often this way; Olórin would arrive in Imladris unlooked-for, closet himself away with Elrond for a while, then eat, bathe, and fall asleep nearly as soon as his head hit the pillow.

 He smiled down tolerantly at Olórin’s slumbering form, and as quietly as possible, undressed and slipped under the covers beside his lover. He curled up on his side and through the wavering glow of the fireplace, studied Olórin’s profile. Only in his repose, his expression open and unguarded, could Lindir truly judge the truth of his lover’s earlier assurances of his continued good welfare. Straightforward and sometimes blunt to the point of rudeness about the affairs of Middle-earth Olórin might be, but he had a frustrating tendency to prevaricate when his own well-being was concerned.

 An errant moonbeam slanted across the bed, and Lindir noted with dismay that even absent the ‘kindly old man’ disguise, there were more tiny lines etched in that eternally youthful face than there had been the year before. A few more wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, a furrow between the brows, carved from worry – but there were some to which Lindir reacted with relief. Deep lines framed thin lips, but these lines were etched not from sorrow and worry, but mirth and joy. It was heartening to learn that Olórin had found  _something_  to laugh about on his journey.

 Lindir reached for his lover’s hand, resting across the blankets, and found it icy-cold. Carefully, he interlaced their fingers and snuggled as close to his lover as he dared, lending his body warmth. He wiggled around a bit when Olórin shifted closer in his sleep, his thigh brushing the erection Lindir had, to no avail, attempted to suppress for the better part of a half-hour. What Olórin needed most was rest – his own needs would have to wait.

 “Rest well, my love, and I will guard your dreams,” Lindir whispered into the night, finally falling asleep, Olórin’s hand still clasped in his own.

 *~*~*~*~*

 Lindir woke as the first thready rays of the newly born sun made their way over the treetops. Some time during the night, Olórin had migrated to his own side of the bed and, as usual, had managed to steal all the blankets. In his sleep, Olórin had rolled over and was now sprawled face down, with the pillow half covering his head. The sheets, tangled about his broad shoulders, rose and fell with the steady rhythm of his breathing. He slept deeply, as though he had not a care in the world.

 Inching cautiously across the bed, Lindir nestled close into his lover’s warmth. There were few things more blissful in life than to wake to than the scent of warm, sleeping wizard, even if the wizard in question did have the bothersome habit of taking all the blankets.

 A lock of hair cascaded over one of Olórin’s shoulders, draping in a silver-gold trickle down his neck. Lindir reached out to stroke its silky texture, caressing the soft strands between his fingers, and felt an overwhelming urge to kiss the long, elegant expanse of neck that was revealed beneath.

 Olórin was still sleeping soundly, and Lindir felt a momentary pang of guilt about the possibility of waking him, but it had been so long since he had held his lover in his arms that he could not deny the desire. The craving to taste that sweet flesh was almost physical. Opening his mouth, he suckled the sleep-warm skin gently, until a rosy bloom rose against the milk-pale flesh that still carried a hint of the crisp tang of bath soap.

 Olórin twitched, but soon settled back to sleep, his breathing slow and even.

 The tantalizing tip of an ear peeked through the fine wisps of hair, as well. Brushing the flaxen locks back, Lindir bared his prize, drawing just the lobe into his mouth and suckling lightly for a moment, then gave the curve of the ear a long, slow lick.

 Olórin shuddered and uttered a tiny whimper, and then Lindir knew he had been duped.

 “You are not asleep, you phony,” he complained playfully, with a light swat to Olórin’s blanket-swathed bottom.

 “I most certainly  _am_ ,” came the wizard’s muffled reply from somewhere under the pillow. “At the moment, I am fast asleep in a snug little cave in a forest, and I am dreaming that there is some sort of feral beast nibbling at my ear. Alas, in this dream there is also a large stick poking my belly. It is  _quite_  uncomfortable. All in all, it is a rather unsatisfactory dream.”

 ‘ _Someone is in a playful mood this morning, hmm?_ ’ Lindir thought, smiling to himself.

 “On a largeness scale, would you say the size of the stick in question falls in the median of the range, or more toward the upper end of the spectrum?” he queried innocently, moving to lie upon Olórin’s long back, rocking his hips gently against the crevice of his lover’s backside, pressing a line of nipping little kisses along the delicate ridges of his spine.

 “Oh, this stick is definitely well above the ordinary size for a stick, and quite as hard as iron.”

 Lindir’s shoulders trembled with laughter, but he kept his voice steady. “Iron? Surely, you exaggerate!”

 “Oh no, my dear, I speak the absolute truth. A wizard  _never_  exaggerates!” One large blue eye peeked from under the pillow and peered up at him with affected innocence. “Would you like to see my stick, Lindir?”

 “Oh yes, I should very much like to see it and determine if this stick is indeed as impressive as you claim.”

 “Very well, then move aside,” Olórin ordered, heaving himself onto his back and throwing the blankets off. “Well? Is it not all that I promised?”

 With appraising eyes, Lindir looked over his naked lover from the very tips of his toes up to the sleep-tousled hair and back again, letting his glance linger for an especially long time on the considerable shaft that lay tight against his lover’s belly. Finally prodding it gently with a finger, he found it was indeed ‘hard as iron’, just as Olórin had promised.

 Lindir would have responded to his lover’s query, but somehow, in the intervening moments, his mouth had found a sweet little rose-colored nipple and was otherwise occupied. “Mmmm,” he managed finally, as his tongue licked and teased it into a tight little bud.

 Olórin gasped, hissing as sharp white teeth nipped a trifle harder than he anticipated, then sighed contentedly as a warm tongue soothed the hurt, his eyes fluttering closed. “No foreplay this morning?”

 “No,” Lindir answered shortly, and rising swiftly to his knees, stretched and reached into the bedside table, removing a small, covered pot, then held it out to his lover.

 But to his surprise, Olórin made no motion to accept the offering, only shaking his head slightly at Lindir’s bewildered look. “ _No_ , Lindir. I want… will you…“

 Hesitantly, Lindir rolled the jar in his hands, looking down doubtfully at his lover at this unexpected shift in their usual roles. “Are you certain? Perhaps it would be better…?”

 “You do not wish it?”

 The hurt and disappointment in his lover’s eyes made Lindir’s heart clench in agony, and he hurriedly explained, “Oh yes, I wish it,  _definitely_ , but you are leaving today, and I will not be responsible for causing you discomfort.”

 Olórin was silent for a moment, chewing on his lip, then finally queried, “Would your answer differ if I were to be delayed another day?”

 “ _Really?!?_  Do you mean it?”

 Suddenly feeling as giddy as a child awaiting the gift giving on Yule morning, Lindir held his breath. The events of the past day were more than he could have dreamt of. First, his lover’s unexpected arrival, and then, quick on the heels of that surprise, Olórin’s hint of staying one more day – it was too much to believe.

 “The destiny of Middle-earth is unlikely to be determined in a single day, so yes, I suppose I could. But your argument must be quite persuasive, Lindir,” Olórin said slowly and sternly, as though addressing a particularly strong-willed child, but there was a sparkle in his eye.

 Until that moment, he had halfway expected the crushing disappointment that would have come when Olórin told him  _no, my regrets, Lindir, I really must go, so sorry to have got your hopes up, dear love, but I shall see you sometime next year_. Lindir let out his breath in a long, shuddering, relieved gust.

 “I can be quite persuasive when the situation requires it,” he answered roughly, quickly spread some of the gel from the pot on his own straining shaft before Olórin could reconsider.

 “Just let me turn over - ” Olórin rose up on one arm.

 “Do not  _dare_ ,” Lindir growled, pushing his lover roughly back to the bed with uncharacteristic force. “After all this time, I want to see your face when we make love, not the back of your head.”

 Olórin clenched his eyelids as Lindir slowly pressed forward; it had been over a year since the last time they were intimate, and though his lover was as careful as could be, moving slowly and gently, still, there was a small amount of pain. Lindir’s breath fluttered against his face, the soft touch of lips against his mouth, a tentative probe of tongue against his teeth, and a muffled, urgent moan escaped his chest. “ _Move_ , Lindir, for the love of…”

 He opened his eyes and was taken aback by the moisture shining wetly across Lindir’s flushed cheeks. “Oh, sweetheart,” he breathed softly, brushing away a stray droplet. “What is this? Come now, this is no time for tears.”

 “Every time you leave, I fear you will not come back,” Lindir managed to choke out.

 “Hush, my heart,” Olórin soothed, smoothing a few tangled dark strands of hair back from his lover’s face, tucking them behind his ears, and then framed Lindir’s face gently between his palms. “I will come back. Wherever I go, however far away I am, I will  _always_  come back to you. You are my very heart and soul, Lindir, and I would pass through fire and shadow to come back to you.”

 But even as he spoke, Olórin felt a peculiar tingle at the base of his spine, some odd sense of prophecy, perhaps. Struggling to conceal a sudden shudder of dread from his lover, he uttered a silent plea to the Valar that this promise would never be put to the test, then resolved to put the thought from his mind for the time being.

 If the ruin of Gandalf the Grey was already foretold in the great Music, then there was little now that could be done to alter the course of his future. But if one day that fate  _did_ come to pass, Olórin vowed that his pledge would not have been made in vain. The desperate need to believe he saw reflected in his lover’s eyes redoubled his resolve that he would go to any length – petition Námo for clemency, prostrate himself at the feet of Manwë, entreat to Ilúvatar himself, if necessary – to see that promise fulfilled.

 “Now, enough of that, my dear sweet love,” he said, kissing the tip of Lindir’s nose. “There should be more important things on your mind, like making love to me.”

 Lindir was more than amenable to that suggestion.

 *~*~*~*~*

  _ **Coirë, Third Age 3019, Lothlórien**_

Almost before the words left Elrond’s mouth that Mithrandir had been delivered by Gwaihir the Windlord, barely conscious and frail, but  _alive_ , to Lothlórien and into Galadriel’s care, Lindir was running for the stables and had swung up on the swiftest horse to be found in the valley, save Glorfindel’s beloved Asfaloth, and was riding hell bent for leather toward the Golden Wood.

 “He is very weak,” Galadriel cautioned Lindir two days later, leading him up many stairs to the talan where his lover had been settled. “You must not tire him beyond what he can endure.”

 He dipped his head in acknowledgement. “I understand, Lady, and I am forever in your debt. Thank you for caring for him.”

 “You love him very much,” she remarked, pausing at a landing, where a door stood slightly ajar.

 He nodded. “I do.”

 She gave him a gentle smile and left, closing the door behind her to give the lovers some privacy to conduct their reunion.

 Olórin, unglamoured, lay in a soft, comfortable bed, propped up by many thick down pillows. He looked thin and wan, his skin so pale as to be almost translucent, but to Lindir, he had never looked more beautiful.

 Lindir sat in a chair pulled close beside the bed, his dark head bent close to his lover’s so they could talk without taxing the wizard’s strength any more than necessary. “I thought you were gone,” he whispered, his voice catching on a stifled sob.

 “A wizard is not so easy to destroy as that, my love.” Olórin smiled weakly, tracing his fingers over the delicate curve of Lindir’s cheekbones, still damp with tears. He would never reveal to Lindir that as his spirit wandered in that timeless place, through cold and dark and terrible loneliness, he feared his immortal soul would be eternally lost to the bleak, solemn halls of Mandos.

 But then, when despair was at its utmost, Manwë came to him in a shining corona of golden-blue light, and from somewhere within his own being sprang a vision, the recollection of a raven-haired beauty whose voice was pure as a breeze on a summer’s day. A faint glimmer of hope had come to Olórin then, and enfolding it with every atom of his spiritual being, nurtured that tiny flicker with his own will to live, until it blazed with a might to rival the greatest of Elbereth’s stars.

 His next cognizant thought – it could have been weeks, or mere seconds that passed in the counting of time – was of flying, soaring through the frigid skies borne upon the wings of the Eagles, and then, some time later, a deep bed in Lothlórien, with Galadriel’s delicate, warm hands smoothing his brow, her low, melodic voice shushing him as he shouted himself into consciousness.

 “So tired…” He pulled Lindir down into bed beside him. His eyelids were heavy, so very heavy…

 “Do you remember the promise I made to you that morning, long ago?” he asked drowsily, already slipping back into a healing slumber.

 Fresh tears welled anew in Lindir’s eyes and he nodded against Olórin’s shoulder. “You swore you would always come back.”

 “Through fire and shadow,” Olórin whispered, as sleep came over him. “Will  _always_  come back.”

 When Galadriel peeked through the doorway a while later, she found them fast asleep, wrapped in each other’s arms.

 *~*~* finis *~*~*

 

End note:  
Olórin is the true name of the Maia more commonly known among the Elves as Mithrandir, and by Men as that wily old wizard, Gandalf.  As his lover, and one of the few to whom Olórin chooses to reveal his true form, Lindir prefers to use the Valinorian form when the two are alone together.  I hope the transition back and forth wasn’t too confusing. =)


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